


Old Growth

by IdleLeaves



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 04:56:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/948875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleLeaves/pseuds/IdleLeaves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fourth Age, Rivendell. Sometimes a small change makes a big difference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Growth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lady Mirfain](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Lady+Mirfain).



The night is more than half-gone and still they linger. The fire has burned low, its embers offering no warmth and very little light. Most have gone to seek their beds, and the words – both speech and song – of those who remain have given way to familiar silence. Erestor's empty wine cup sits at his feet, forgotten.

Behind him, someone begins to sing again, and though her voice is quiet it carries in the echoing stillness of a hall built for much larger gatherings. The song is old – almost as old as Erestor himself. At his side, Glorfindel watches the fire's remains, a furrow in his brow that usually means his thoughts have drifted from the present to the past. As the song ends, he shakes his head as if to dispel the smoke-haze of memory, and when he raises his eyes a wordless question, and its answer, passes between them.

Outside the skies are ink-black, dense clouds blocking even the moon. There's a chill in the air; winter is coming. Every year, now, it seems earlier, but Erestor knows this is only perception and not fact.

"Smells like rain," Glorfindel says.

Erestor slips his hand into Glorfindel's as they walk a rarely-trod path through a tangle of flowers both wild and cultivated. Long ago, the path had been wide and clearly-defined, winding through one of Celebrían's carefully-tended gardens, but in recent years the flowers had been free to spread beyond the confines of the gardens, narrowing the path and blurring its borders. At the end of the trail, a low arch – hardly enough to be labelled a bridge – curves over a shallow stream.

Erestor takes only one step onto the bridge before he is stopped by Glorfindel's hand on his shoulder. Glorfindel pulls him close, holding Erestor's face in his hands for an unexpected, but not unwelcome, kiss.

"What was that for?" Erestor says.

"Do I need a reason?" is Glorfindel's response. They both smile.

In the distance, then, thunder rumbles. The first droplets fall onto Erestor's arms. "Oh," he says.

They're quick but not quick enough, and the rain has turned into a downpour before they reach Glorfindel's cottage. Erestor closes the door behind them, dripping onto the mat, and is silently grateful that some of his clothing had migrated to Glorfindel's home.

After he's changed into dry clothing and brushed the tangles from his hair, he finds Glorfindel standing by the window at the end of the hall, palms spread flat on the sill, wrapped in a robe and with his hair – darkened to honey-gold by the rain – falling in wet ripples past his shoulders. He's opened the shutters, but the rain is kept at bay by the branches and leaves of the maple tree just outside. The next thunderclap is strong enough to rattle Glorfindel's framed sketches on the wall, and the flash that follows lights the sky, for a fleeting moment, like a cold winter sun.

And the coming winter will be cold, and long. In the years since Elrond's departure it seemed the valley had crept backward in time, so slowly as to be unnoticeable from season to season but more evident from year to year. The winters were colder, the summers warmer, ivy had begun to climb walls and twine around pillars, and then the infrequent-but-intense storms – closer to what it may have been like before the founding of Imladris and the later protection afforded by Elrond's ring.

Erestor still holds the brush in his hand; he sweeps Glorfindel's hair back and braids it away from his face. Glorfindel's soft sigh does not go unnoticed, and neither does the way the tension in his shoulders eases at Erestor's touch. Erestor sets the brush on the windowsill and wraps his arms around Glorfindel's waist, resting his chin on his shoulder. Glorfindel's hands close over his own for a moment before he reaches up to close and latch the shutters.

"Bed?" suggests Erestor, turning away; he knows Glorfindel will follow.

* * *

The sun rises the next morning in a clear autumn sky, drying the rain-soaked valley. The storm had continued through the night, waking Erestor more than once with thunder and again when the wind swept through, whipping the branches of Glorfindel's maple trees against the walls of his cottage. The maples, still young and flexible, had weathered the storm just fine, but other trees had not been so fortunate. Some of the more delicate flowers had broken, but the rest were only bent, and already starting to straighten in the morning light. The valley's people spread out around the halls, cottages, streams, gardens, and trees, surveying the damage.

By late morning, Erestor and Glorfindel have made their way to an extraordinarily old, spreading beech on a mossy hillside well above the cottages. A wide, low-hanging branch has been split from the trunk, and lies at the base of the tree, bark peeling along the jagged edge. The stone bench underneath is not damaged, but the loss of the branch puts it in full sun instead of shade, and Erestor raises a hand to shield his eyes from the glare.

"I think I'll miss this spot," Erestor says, while Glorfindel drags the fallen branch away from the tree. "Do you remember—" he starts, but gets no further.

"Yes," Glorfindel says, cutting him off, and laughs at the expression on Erestor's face. "I remember. All of it," he continues, and his smile falters. "There's more memories than people here now, I think."

Erestor reaches out and gives Glorfindel's hand a gentle squeeze.

"So," Glorfindel says, brightening. "Shall we move this?"

Together, they carry the bench to the other side of the tree, setting it in the shade. Rather than looking down over the halls as it had for so long, it now faces north, toward a triad of springs tumbling down slopes dotted with spruce, fir, and patches of wildflowers.

"Definitely not the same," Glorfindel says. "But nice."

They allow themselves time, then, to sit in comfortable quiet, their homes behind them instead of ahead. Glorfindel studies the branch left lying on a bed of moss, then rises. "I think," he says, hefting the end over his shoulder, "we need more branches."

* * *

The stars are out in full, and a crescent moon shines in the near-cloudless sky. The meadow below the halls flickers in amber light cast by the bonfire – built from branches severed in the storm – at its centre. Its heat is more than enough to ward off the bite in the autumn-evening air. Fire, wine, music: a familiar combination, yet under that endless sky there is a sort of contentment, bordering on something like relief, that does not exist within the sprawling halls that make echoes of their voices and stay dark in their corners where the firelight cannot reach. The music, tonight, is not meant for stillness, quiet contemplation, or dwelling too much on the past.

"Must you always make the best of everything?" Erestor asks, but doesn't give Glorfindel time to respond. "Shall I find us another?" he says, picking up their now-empty bottle of wine.

"No," says Glorfindel, brushing the grass from his clothing as he stands. "Dance with me?" he asks, holding out his hand.

"I don't dance," says Erestor, but without his usual conviction.

"You do tonight."

Erestor gives in. Glorfindel's smile is bright as Erestor grasps his hand and allows himself to be led toward the flames.

**Author's Note:**

> For Lady Mirfain. I hope you enjoyed this, despite my muses doing their very best to lock your prompts in a box and bury it in my garden.


End file.
